Colonel Aloysius Brandon had never deigned call on me since I’d been married, though he’d attended Donata’s soirees and suppers at the South Audley Street House with his wife, Louisa. Therefore, I was astonished when Bartholomew admitted him to the dining room.
Brandon had always been a hearty man, large without being soft, with a big voice, firm handshake, and loud opinions. I noted a bit more gray in his dark hair today and a few more wrinkles on his forehead, but his blue eyes were as bright and vigorous as ever.
“Did you ride all night?” I asked as I rose to shake his hand and gesture him to a seat.
Bartholomew, without prompting, set a place for Brandon, poured him coffee, and checked the dishes under silver covers on the sideboard. He hurried out, likely to shout at those in the kitchen to replenish the food.
Brandon sat down, lifting the cup of coffee, eyes pinching at the steam. “Left early this morning. Fine weather for riding, and I wanted to reach Brighton before it grew too hot. Easier on my horse.” He spoke with the consideration of a cavalryman for his mount.
I set aside the newspaper I’d been reading, more uncomfortable with his presence than I wished to admit. My turbulent relationship with Brandon had calmed in the last year, but there remained a bit of strain between us.
“How is Louisa?” I asked, keeping my voice light. “Is she well?”
Brandon took a sip of the coffee, an excuse to not meet my eyes. “She is right as rain. Can’t drag her out of the gardens most days. She loves summer in the country.”
“I cannot blame her.” The Brandons’ large house in Kent was indeed a lovely place, the gardens lush under Louisa’s care.
“And Mrs. Lacey?” Brandon asked in return. “She is well?”
“Donata enjoys the sea bathing. Has insisted we go several times a week, claiming the salt water is good for us. Gabriella likes splashing about, and Peter swims like a fish,” I finished proudly.
“Excellent.” Brandon’s tension eased at my answers. “I received your letter, of course, and decided to come down. Easier for me to explain face to face.”
Brandon had never been one for letter writing. He could agonize an entire afternoon over a single paragraph.
“Explain what?” I asked. “That Isherwood was a boor? And what of this fantastic idea that Mrs. Isherwood was a spy for Bonaparte?”
Brandon started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut as Bartholomew and a footman returned with more platters for the sideboard. Bartholomew offered to serve Brandon, but Brandon waved him away, climbed to his feet, and moved to pile food on his plate. I signaled Bartholomew to withdraw, which the young man did with reluctance, taking the footman with him.
Brandon clumped back to the table and thunked down his plate. He resumed his seat, lifted knife and fork, and attacked the mound of bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, and meat pie.
“In truth, Louisa thought I’d do better to speak to you,” he said around a mouthful of sausages. “She remembers Salamanca. She was taken with the place, has suggested we return and hire a house there.” His expression told me he thought Louisa had run mad.
“The warmth is nice.” I recalled balmy Spain with nostalgia, particularly whenever the weather turned cold and dank in London. “The French chose well when they garrisoned in Salamanca.”
“Yes, they made good use of the place.” Brandon assumed the look of admiration he wore when discussing tactics and battles. “But I have not come to reminisce about the war. I need to tell you about Armitage and Isherwood. Two more self-serving gentlemen I have never met. I suppose that is the sort the Forty-Seventh Light attracts.”
I nodded, sharing his disdain for any regiment but our own. “I barely knew anything about Isherwood, except for what he did to his wife. I never realized Armitage was even in the Forty-Seventh.”
“Because you did not attend the senior officers’ suppers and soirees and all that nonsense.” Brandon tore apart his eggs. “I had the displeasure of dining with Lord Armitage, Colonel—then Major—Isherwood, and Comte Desjardins on several occasions. Desjardins was more a hanger-on. He was brought in by Armitage, who’d known him for years, to advise Wellington about the Frenchmen he fought. But Desjardins was useless, in my opinion. Most of the Corsican’s marshals despised emigres like Desjardins and wouldn’t have moved in his circles, but Armitage insisted. I do not know if the two men were simply old friends or Armitage owed him something. The latter, probably.” Brandon paused to take a noisy sip of coffee.
“You were alarmed enough by my letter to ride to Brighton,” I said.
Brandon nodded and set down his cup. “If there is perfidy, Armitage is behind it, trust me. He killed his own brother, you know.”
I started at his bluntness. “A rumor, I thought. Unproven.”
Brandon snorted. “He did it, all right. Lady Armitage married him quickly enough—angling for it, a few fellows who were in Austria at the time tell me. Armitage had the money, the prestige, the title, and the composure to give Miss Randolph a grand house and a soft life. His brother was a wastrel and she knew it—she chased him only in order to gain Armitage’s attention.”
“Lady Aline told me she was increasing at the time of the brother’s death. She’d have leapt at any offer of marriage, I’d think.”
“She’d had other offers to marry,” Brandon said darkly. “But she wanted Armitage. They say she even encouraged Armitage to kill his brother and pretend a stray bullet did it.”
I grimaced. “That is a fairly monstrous accusation.”
“Monstrous is the word. Which is why I rose at an ungodly hour and rode to Brighton to tell you.” Brandon finished off another forkful. “Damn fine cook you’ve found here, Lacey.”
I, for one, had lost my appetite. “Lady Armitage had the child.”
“A daughter, which was a mercy for the poor mite. No worries about the entail. She gave Armitage a son a year after that, so all is well in Armitage’s world.”
I drew a pattern on the tablecloth with the back of my knife. “What perfidy did Armitage commit at Salamanca?”
Brandon chewed and swallowed. “You recall that a large part of the French battalions we fought escaped during their retreat? That Wellington pursued them but had to give up?”
“I do remember chasing them, fruitlessly, over hills full of olive trees and being dead tired when I finally returned. Armitage tried to tell me last night that Marguerite caused this by passing information stolen from Isherwood to the French marshals.”
“Ha. Isherwood did that himself,” Brandon said. “Aided and abetted by Lord Armitage.”
I froze, my lazy patterns coming to an end. “Isherwood did? I’d believe it of Armitage, but I thought Isherwood was a stickler for the rules, very upright. He had a long career as an officer. If his name was tarnished, I would have heard. Wouldn’t I?”
“He was also head over arse in debt. His commission cost money, his fine house in Derbyshire cost money, not to mention the one here in Brighton, and the keeping of his wife cost money. Probably he wagered heavily at cards—who knows?” Brandon spoke with the virtuous air of one who’d never been in debt. “Armitage gave Isherwood money to help him pay up. They spoke of it quite openly over cheroots one night. Isherwood expressed a wish for the war to go on forever, as he was too worried about his creditors to return to England. He said it jokingly, but Armitage told him he need have no fears—Armitage would pay the debts and make an arrangement with Isherwood to return the money when he could.”
“Devilish generous,” I said in surprise. “From my brief acquaintance with Armitage, I cannot believe he’d pass Isherwood money out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Of course not.” Brandon scraped his plate clean, took a final bite, and laid down his fork with satisfaction. “Armitage exacted a price, and I believe that price was letting the French retreat without hindrance. Isherwood was to have issued commands that day—the story is that the commands went astray or were misunderstood, but I don’t believe that. Wellington doesn’t either, but he had no proof that Isherwood deliberately disobeyed.”
I stared at him, mystified. “I dislike Armitage intensely, but I cannot fathom a reason for him to help Bonaparte, and drag Isherwood into the mess. Armitage comes from an old lineage and a family with plenty of blunt. Lady Aline told me a bit about him, and her information is always spot on. And anyway, the tide was turning for Napoleon at that point. Russia was already going badly for him, and Wellington rode into Madrid soon after Salamanca, overturning Bonaparte’s best-laid plans. Armitage had no reason to betray us.”
Brandon shrugged and lifted his coffee. “I’m not certain of all the twists and turns, but the money Armitage gave Isherwood came actually from Desjardins, who has pots of it. He keeps those pots by playing all sides of the fence. He’d be all for Bonaparte one day, all for Louis the Eighteenth the next. Now, I believe, he’s backing the Duc d’Orleans, reasoning that the duke is the strongest man to take over whenever Louis dies, never mind he’s a few steps down in the line of succession. Desjardins does not try very hard to keep this a secret. Armitage is in his pocket, believe me. Perhaps Armitage’s finances are worse off than he lets the world believe.”
“So Armitage owed Desjardins, and Desjardins found a way Armitage could pay, using Isherwood. This way Isherwood would stand in the debt of both men.” I laid down my knife. “If you are saying you believe the pair of them killed Isherwood, I can see them doing such a thing, though I’m not certain why they should. If Isherwood owed them, and they had him doing as they pleased, why murder him?”
Brandon swirled the dregs of his coffee. “Perhaps they feared he’d grown a conscience and wanted to confess. Perhaps Isherwood threatened them with this.”
“They could easily deny everything. It was Isherwood who gave the orders.” I pondered. “Or were they fools and kept a written record of all they did?”
“No idea. I can only tell you what I heard, and what I think.”
I warmed with anger. “I wonder if Marguerite knew. Perhaps that is why Isherwood abandoned her. If she went to Wellington and told him what her husband had done, her accusations might be dismissed as the bitterness of a woman who’d been set aside.”
“Wellington is no fool,” Brandon said. “He’d have at least listened.”
“If she was even allowed to speak to him.” I growled. “Damnation. That is why Armitage insisted she was a spy and a liar. They feared she had known everything and had relayed it to me. They have been waiting for me to denounce them.”
“And did she tell you?”
I cast my mind back to the warm days in Salamanca, the heady laziness inside the high stone house while I celebrated being alive after fierce battle.
“Nothing at all of this. If anything, Marguerite was happy to be free of Isherwood. If she did know what he’d done, I doubt she’d think I could help. But later, if she threatened to use the knowledge against him …” I let out a breath. “I am happy I convinced her to return to England. That was a dangerous secret to hold.”
“Still is,” Brandon pointed out. “But it was a long time ago, Isherwood is dead now, and nothing can be proved. I only know of it because of overheard conversations and whispers afterward—put two and two together, don’t you know. But no one has evidence of it. It would be Marguerite’s word against Armitage’s, and as you point out, his is an old name, and he’s a trusted diplomat.”
“Unless Isherwood left a confession.” I tapped the table, lost in thought. “Perhaps he threatened to betray Armitage or Desjardins—both of them. They decided to lure him to the Pavilion, and there they cornered him and killed him.” And tried to fit me up for the murder, in case I did know something about the Salamanca business, damn them. “But what if Isherwood already passed on this knowledge? To Major Forbes, his most trusted man? Or his son …” I rose in agitation. “Good Lord. I need to warn him.”
“If Isherwood left a letter about it, his son already knows,” Brandon said reasonably, remaining in his seat. “He must guess they are the culprits, but how to prove it?”
“Young Isherwood asked me to prove it.” I began to pace. “He might not know—Isherwood did not necessarily tell him, but would Armitage realize this? And Marguerite must be warned.”
“Racing around half-cocked only brings you trouble,” Brandon said, too calm for my taste. “As usual.”
I halted, making myself think. If Armitage had killed Colonel Isherwood, wouldn’t his troubles be over? Marguerite might know of the orders at Salamanca, young Isherwood might know, and I might. But as Brandon said, it would be our word against his. It would be too risky for Armitage to kill us all. He’d never cover up four murders.
He had wanted me to be found over Isherwood’s body, had drugged me for the purpose. Even if I didn’t go to the gallows for the murder, who would believe me when I bleated about betrayal at Salamanca? I would not have much credit after being found standing over his body.
I had shared port with Isherwood. Perhaps the dose had been in that, put there by Armitage—or Desjardins, who’d admitted he’d been in the room—starting to work as I walked in the Steine with Grenville …
But why would I have returned to the Pavilion? If I’d felt odd and unwell, wouldn’t I have simply returned home and gone to bed? And why had I stopped in the public house where Captain Wilks had seen me?
Armitage obviously hadn’t believed I’d be able to flee the Pavilion before being discovered, and they hadn’t expected Isherwood’s son to keep silent about the crime.
When I hadn’t been arrested, Desjardins had tried twice to shoot me. He’d claimed accident the first time, and that he’d shot at Marguerite in anger the second. But he’d hardly confess to trying to murder me when I taxed him with it.
Marguerite, if she now attempted to tell her tale, might be dismissed as a vindictive woman. Young Isherwood, on the other hand, was highly respected, well liked.
“I am off to see Isherwood’s son.” I drained my coffee and clattered the cup to the table. “Will you send word to Marguerite for me? Brewster knows where she’s lodging. He can tell you, or Bartholomew, if Brewster refuses to run the errand himself.”
Brandon rose, a frown in place. “Have a care, Lacey. Armitage is dangerous. If you accuse him, he’ll have the best solicitors and barristers on his side, and he can turn around and accuse you of whatever he wishes. At the least, he’ll have you in lawsuits the rest of your life for slander, your wife along with you.”
He had a point. “Then we will have to catch him without a doubt,” I said fervently. “Make sure he’s ruined if nothing else.”
I had plenty of ideas on that score, none I would share with my former commander. Brandon would only try to talk me out of them.
Brewster would by no means allow me to walk across Brighton without him. He waited like a bulwark outside, and so Brandon would have to send the message to Marguerite through Bartholomew.
I also sent a footman running for Quimby, telling him to meet me at young Isherwood’s home, urgently.
Except Isherwood wasn’t home. He was at Preston Barracks, his footman stiffly informed me, on duty today. The footman was contemptuously surprised I would not know this.
Nothing for it but to hire a hackney to drive us north out of Brighton to the barracks.
It had been a long time since I’d been in an army camp. This one was permanent, not the temporary bivouacs I’d stayed in throughout Portugal and Spain. The barracks reminded me of the one I’d been assigned to in Kent, where I’d trained others in the lull in the war before I’d been sent to the ill-fated campaign in the Netherlands.
Long brick buildings housed both horses and men, enclosing a yard where soldiers drilled, cared for the horses, or vigorously polished tack.
I was directed after inquiries to an office above the stables. There I found young Colonel Isherwood conferring with Major Forbes on a shipment of buckles that had gone missing.
Army life was mostly this, not the excitement of battle many young men dreamed of—endless training, disciplining bored troops, and finding out what had become of a gross of bridle buckles.
The aid-de-camp unfortunate enough to announce me endured a blistering stare from Forbes and quickly retreated.
Isherwood, who was both more polite and more steely, shook my hand. “What news, Captain?”
“I believe I know who murdered your father,” I said. “But I will need your help to draw him out and prove it.”